The Seafarer
by Glossopteris Flora
Summary: A Halloween story inspired by an Irish play I've seen in New York.


_He knows not_

_Who lives most easily on land, how I_

_Have spent my winter on the ice-cold sea_

_Wretched and anxious in the paths of exile_

_Lacking dear friends, hung round by icicles_

_While hail flew past in showers. _

– from the Anglo-Saxon poem "_The Seafarer_," trans. by Richard Hamer

Admiral Nelson was gloomily looking at the screen of his laptop, when the phone buzzed melodiously, shaking him out of his thoughts. He made sure it was Angie, his personal assistant, before picking up to answer the call.

"Yes Angie?"

"Mr Morton is here, sir. Can you see him now?"

Nelson smiled, welcoming the interruption.

"Of course, Angie! And… would you mind making us a pot of coffee?"

"Uh… Yes sir, I mean, no sir, I don't mind."

The imperceptible hesitation in Angie's voice did not pass unnoticed.

"And do not lecture me. I've enough with Lee's constant pestering me about my smoking and drinking too much coffee."

Still grumbling, but inwardly delighted with the concern displayed by the people he considered as family rather than simply employees, Nelson snapped the lid of his laptop shut, as Chip Morton, _Seaview_'s executive officer, ambled in, an impish twinkle in his glacier-blue eyes.

"Good morning, sir."

The usually impassive officer seemed secretly pleased with himself, and the admiral felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine. Chip Morton and Lee Crane had been on shore leave together for a few days, working on a project of their own, and that always meant mischief, something he enjoyed like a grown up witnessing the antics of two boisterous pups.

"Sit down, Chip. What brings you to the bear's lair so early in the morning?"

Chip Morton had the good taste to blush slightly, at the admiral's gentle teasing. Nelson did not ignore that _Seaview_'s commanding staff, and particularly Crane and Morton, made him the target of their friendly jokes every time his famous Irish temper manifested itself at the wrong moment, in spite of his rank and personal prestige.

"Well… Sir… Lee and I have been thinking…"

Nelson harrumphed, and crossed his arms in an instinctively defensive posture.

"I fear the worst, coming from the pair of you."

Chip straightened his back, and rested his hands on his knees, in an attempt to convey a confidence he did not feel at all. Although Nelson had always been friendly and supportive towards him, he could not delude himself into thinking that he was Lee's equal in his affection. He was _Seaview_'s XO above all, highly praised for his skills, but if the admiral accepted him in his private circle, it was chiefly to please Lee, his most intimate friend, enemy, partner, rival, young brother, blood brother, surrogate son, spiritual heir, and the object of all his concerns.

"As a matter of fact, sir, it's very serious."

Playing the game, Nelson made a great display of amused scepticism.

"I'm all ears, Chip, carry on…"

"Do you remember the play you saw when you took Lee to that United Nations conference last year?"

Caught unprepared, the admiral tilted his head, and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, a gesture he had borrowed from Lee, as his mind frantically tried to grasp where this conversation was heading to.

He remembered clearly enough attending an important conference on climate change during a chilly February[1] week. As usual, he had shunned publicity, and declined all the invitations to the receptions that were held for the attendees. He preferred enjoying the intense nightlife of Broadway with Lee, the welcoming ambiance of one of the many Irish pubs in Theater District, or a quiet meal in the French restaurant where he was a regular. It was an invaluable opportunity to have endless conversations with his friend about topics they had no time to address when they were on duty, like the difficulty of maintaining a relationship in spite of their hectic schedule, the comfort of a life without family responsibilities_, _andthe consequent loneliness. Opening his heart more than he was used to with the aid of a few drinks, Nelson had confessed in no veiled terms, that he had never fully recovered from his wife's accidental death[2], and that he did not fully understand the conflict between his excessive self-reliance, and his occasional pangs of yearning for a "normal" domestic life.

One evening, as they were walking along 45th street, wondering how to make the best of their free time, a bright theatre display caught Lee's eyes. _The Seafarer_… That was an appealing title for two beached sailors, all the more so because the author because bore an Irish-sounding name. Without giving it a second thought, and without knowing if it had anything at all to do with the sea, they went inside, and booked two seats for the show.

A story of immortal rage and agony and unbearable solitude, centered on a Christmas poker game with the devil himself, and superbly performed by an outstanding cast, the play impressed them so deeply that they wanted to see it a second time, before flying back to Santa Barbara. In the days following their return, Nelson refused to make any comments, as if the grief and loss and despair had struck a hidden chord in his psyche.

They had never talked about it again, and Nelson thought his friend had forgotten those chilly New York nights, when they had been very close to baring their souls in a way they had never done before, but it seemed that he had been mistaken, and for some reason he did not want to explore, the idea made him slightly uncomfortable.

"Admiral?"

Chip's voice drew him back to reality. Shaking the unease off his mind, Nelson leaned over his desk, with all the signs of the most careful attention.

"So… What about _The Seafarer_?"

"We love the title, and it would be the perfect show for the Institute's Halloween night, since it's really scary, something a bit different from the usual childish flummery we are used to on this occasion. Grown up fun, for once, would be a nice addition to our traditional festivities. We have already found four actors out of five, and we are still looking for the ideal Mr Lockhart, the devil in disguise…"

"It's about a Christmas night, not Halloween, as far as I remember," Nelson objected weakly, guessing what was coming next, "and you will never find an actor as good as the one Lee and I saw in New York last year."

The XO's blue eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Irish, devilish and charismatic… And you can't ignore that redheads have always been suspected to be diabolic creatures in many traditional cultures, starting with Ancient Egypt..."

His voice trailed off as he shrunk under the admiral's steady gaze, afraid that he had overstepped the bounds of rank, and waited for the unavoidable explosion. To his great surprise, Nelson burst out laughing.

"You've been well lectured. Why didn't Lee come to ask, instead of sending you to bear the brunt of my allegedly volatile temper? The latter being, of course, a painfully wrongful accusation, as you must know…"

The admiral stood up, and walked to the window, his hands deep into his pockets to hide the sudden tension, his shoulders hunched forward, as if under the weight of some unexpected and overwhelming weariness. Although he had been active in theatre during his school years, he did not relish the idea of treading the boards as the ambiguous Mr. Lockhart, come to claim the soul a man bargained away in a card game. There was more than the classical pact with the devil in that play, and he did not feel like grappling with the complex feelings it had evoked in him the previous year.

"I reckon it's a _fait accompli_, isn't it?"

"It is, sir."

"And who have you cast as the other characters?"

"Well… Chief Sharkey as Richard Harkin, Mr. O'Brien as Curry, myself as Giblin, and Lee as James 'Sharky' Harkin…"

"Of course… I hope you've planned something for the kids?"

"Yes sir, before the play, they'll have their Halloween party, with costumes, pumpkins, and the rest."

"I suppose it's settled, then."

"Lee would be very disappointed if you declined, sir."

"I guess so."

Who else but Lee to play opposite him, as the hapless "Sharky", the man he wanted to take "through the old hole in the wall"? Nelson thought with trepidation. Hadn't he actually done it, involving Lee in a risky venture, instead of letting him pursue a successful Navy career? Had he ever questioned his motives in doing so? Hadn't he always acted with Lee in an over-possessive way, using Lee's longing for a father figure as a lever to get the best of him, dragging him in his wake, without consideration for Lee's own desires? It was not like that, he chided himself with a shrug. Despite his carefully-crafted appearance of being the easy-going one of the pair, the quiet and self-controlled Lee Crane had never been the man to yield to someone else's needs at the expense of his happiness and integrity. On the contrary, he had been the one who prevailed in any of their private disagreements, and Nelson, cornered in his role of indulgent and seemingly meddling big brother, had never been able to resist his friend's bright smiles and pleading looks. See… wasn't he about to offer his unconditional surrender, and overcome his reluctance, only because Lee was at the heart of the project?

"Sir?"

"Ok, I'll be your Mr. Lockhart…"

And Lee had not even bothered to ask him in person…

The first time he was confronted with the set built by the nimble-handed crewmen, and had to climb onto the narrow gallery by which he was going to make his entrance, more than ten feet above the stage, Nelson repressed a shudder of disgust, and thought he would never manage to surmount his dizziness. He had the impression that the whole structure was on the verge of collapse every time he took a step, and when he reached the foot of the stairs that returned him to _terra firma_, he looked quite like a drowned cat, to the delight of his younger partners. I'm a poor lonesome devil... far from my grounds, he mused grudgingly, deploring already his weakness before Lee's somewhat unpredictable whims.

After a few days, he got used to the stage, and stopped grumbling, especially since he had other worries with the slackening of the activity of the Institute, due to the economic crisis, the heavy maintenance work that would keep _Seaview_ in dry dock for two months_,_ and the constant nagging of the military about her becoming a full-time Navy boat. The bad weather, with unusual north winds and ice-cold rains, did not settle his moods. His right knee bothered him occasionally, but he did not know exactly what caused it. The advent of age, probably, or the reminiscence of an old wound (a memory he cherished somehow because it was behind his first meeting with Lee[3])…

The team picked by Lee among the crew met every night to rehearse, as discreetly as early Christians in the Roman catacombs. As the one who put the project together, Lee had landed the leading part, a Dubliner named "Sharky", who lived with his cantankerous blind brother in a squalid flat in Dublin, and, without knowing it, had made a pact with the devil, to escape from a desperate situation. In spite of his inexperience, Lee proved equal to his task, and did a great job of empathizing with his character, and keeping his own acting up to par with Nelson's dark and rather intense acting.

When October came, _Seaview_ was ready to sail, and the five amateur actors were as nervous as cats, eager to end their self-imposed ordeal. The rehearsals had gone much better than expected, even though they were not professionals, and the dynamic was astonishingly good. During those blessed evenings, Nelson had overcome his misgivings, his adventurous mind enjoying the feeling that everything was new, that he entered untested waters. Besides, the story was compelling, and his interaction with Lee, the highpoint of the play, facilitated by their close friendship, was incredibly powerful.

And there he was, about to go on stage in that Halloween gloomy night, sitting in his makeshift dressing room, absently staring at his own reflection in the mirror, a dapper, gentlemanly figure with a sinister agenda, and simultaneously a tense four-star admiral with the worst case of stage nerves of his life…

The audience, mostly composed of the Institute staff, the dockyard employees, _Seaview_'s crew, with all the family members available, went suddenly quiet, as Kowalski, stunning in an elegant dark suit, reminded everyone to turn off their mobile phone, or put them on silent mode. With a deliberate slowness, Nelson stood up, and stretched his limbs, trying to ignore his racing heart and clammy palms. He had faced raving mad terrorists, erupting volcanoes, frenzy-feeding sharks, and much more frightening phenomena, but this was a novelty, and he was not sure he liked the deeply emotional nature of the experience.

It was almost dark now. He heard Francis Sharkey's muffled voice singing more out of tune than ever, "_Oh the weather outside is frightening, it's dark and there's thunder and lightning_" and followed Chip, who went down before him. Though his stomach was tied up by a gnawing apprehension, he expected it to disappear into the first few lines of dialogue. Stage fright was a normal part of any public performance, a good reminder to those who thought they knew everything. He had often experienced it, before an important presentation, at the many congresses he had attended over the years. Yet this time, something strange happened: not only did the tight knot in his belly not pass, but it worsened, heightened by the unpleasant sensation of being spied upon.

Usually actors do not see the public; they barely perceive a tide of anonymous faces bathed in shadow, and even though he happened to gaze at one of those faces, all he could make out was a blurred pale orb. Never had he tried to recognize familiar features when he was making a speech, and he knew that paying attention to his audience would harm his concentration, but that very evening, feeling worried without reason, he kept trying to find the origin of the stare that stabbed him like a sharp edge between his shoulder blades.

At first, he didn't discern anything. During the brief moments when he could watch the audience without being noticed, he methodically went through the first rows, embarrassed by the steady attention of which he had been the object since the beginning of the show. As the performance progressed, his uneasiness subsided slowly: the woman who gazed at him - for he did not doubt it was a woman - was neither hostile, nor even critical. On the contrary, she supported him, accompanied him, drawing him out of his shell of self-consciousness. At first, he wanted to show off, then he dropped the appearances, and moved into another realm, to be himself eventually, himself entirely, caught in a knot of conflicting emotions, shaken by a kind of internal turmoil he did not fully understand, carried on a wave, powerless... Every time he tried to escape, to take refuge behind his fragile know-how, the merciless gaze scourged him, tore him up, and compelled him to expose his very heart and soul.

And suddenly, he saw her…

It was a woman as he had surmised, a slim, red-headed woman seated in the third row; she was strikingly beautiful, with an oval face, and fiery auburn hair cascading around her shoulders. The keen dark eyes she kept fixed on him were as bright as stars, and when he managed to establish contact, she tilted her head slightly, as if she acknowledged it. He had enough time to perceive high cheekbones not unlike Lee's, a straight nose and a wide, delicately carved mouth. And unexpectedly, he felt overrun by all the pain of the world, engulfed in such a sensation of loneliness that tears welled up in his eyes, to his greatest shame.

"I want your soul, Sharky!"

"Who are you?"

Lee's voice aroused in him a wave of uncontrollable anger and longing; he did not act out any more, he was becoming this locked-heart foreigner, possessed of rage and shame and contempt, burning to bring one of those obnoxious yet enviable human beings, through "the hole in the wall," in a hell of despair and bitterness.

"I want your soul, Sharky!"

The words sprang out with an unexpected strength, his breath caught slightly in his throat, and Lee blinked, surprised at the intensity of his reply.

"What?" His astonishment was not feigned.

"I want your soul!"

He was not Nelson anymore, but the vibrating instrument through which the most primitive feelings expressed themselves: anger, envy, fear. He didn't know if the words he spat with an unknown spite came from a dark and repressed part of his own unconscious, or if they were dictated by this strange woman whose stare wrapped him, drove him, propelled him, inspired him …

"I'm the son of the morning, Sharky. I'm the snake in the garden…"

Nelson noticed that Lee followed suit with a slight hesitation; maybe he had really frightened his friend, as he described all the agonies that waited for "Sharky"'s misled and miserable self, in the Hell he promised him, his whole body shivering with a kind of sacred fury. And suddenly, he lived it fully, he was Mr. Lockhart now, this wandering soul, bewildered by his loneliness, contemplating the happiness of others through the floodlit windows, that too human devil, who still knew how to cry, but could not do it anymore, swathed in his crust of ice. And turning towards the public who had become abruptly silent, he understood that he'd reached the state of grace every actor dreamed of, thanks to the unknown woman who had opened her soul to him, and taken him "right through the old hole in the wall."

Euphoria... He felt bewitched, carried along by his character, both devilish and torn by an ageless pain, taken to a world where rationality had no place, and he saw her smile, without ever distinguishing her clearly enough to engrave her features in his mind, or identify her with one of the staff members he used to meet every day at the Institute.

After the end of the play, as he stepped back on stage for the bows, the audience stood up, clapping and cheering, and he knew it was mostly for him. Somebody shouted his name, Lee and Chip pushed him forward, and the cheers doubled. He looked for the stranger in the third row, but she had disappeared. He had seen so little of her that he would not have been able to recognize her, had he met her accidentally in the streets, and it saddened him. He would have liked to thank her.

Shaken by the strength and the eeriness of the experience, he hastily retreated to his own private space to get rid of the devil's disguise. He craved for a cigarette, and some time to ponder what had just happened to him. Without telling anyone, he put on his sailing jacket, and headed to the beach. It was the only place where he could find peace, and recover his equilibrium, after this frightening dive into the darkest recesses of his mind.

The rain had stopped. The wind had fallen to a dead calm. A watery moon shed a silvery light on the still surface of the sea, casting a glittering path to the shore. Nelson lighted a cigarette, briefly blinded by the spark of his lighter. He let the smoke fill his lungs, enjoying the calmness. The sounds of the ongoing party were barely a nuisance, muffled by the distance, and he began to walk along the gently murmuring surf, his feet crunching in the wet sand.

Something caught his eyes, at the limit of his field of vision, hardly a shadow, and he froze, instantly aware of his vulnerability, alone on this desert strand. As his heart regained a steady rhythm, he realized that it was a seal lounging on the sand, its head turned towards him. The marine biologist in him coming to the fore, he identified it as a young female harbour seal, yet he was disconcerted by the confident expression in the large brown eyes. The animal did not try to move away as he got closer, watching him with a strange intensity, and he remembered that it was Halloween, the night of all nights, when the spirits of those long-gone were supposed to roam the earth to meet the wandering souls who had not yet severed their bond with the world of the livings.

"What do you want of me?"

The round head tilted slightly, in a movement so reminiscent of the mysterious woman of the third row, that he felt an icy shudder snake down his limbs. The soft wet eyes bored into his, and once more, all the unmentionable conflicts and frustrations of his life simmered to a boil in the depths of his heart. Then the creature turned away, and crossed the mirror of the sea, letting him alone with his unsolved puzzle.

For a few seconds, the only trace of her visit were the circular ripples spreading around, and distorting the reflection of the moon, then there was nothing anymore, but the indecipherable serenity of the ocean…

_You're locked in a space that's smaller than a coffin. And it's lying a thousand miles down, under the bed of a vast, icy, pitch-black sea. You're buried alive in there. And it's so cold that you can feel your angry tears freezing in your eyelashes and your very bones ache with deep perpetual agony…_ (_The Seafarer_, Conor McPherson)

**Finis**

* * *

[1] _The Seafarer _by Irish playwright Conor McPherson ran from Dec. 6, 2007 to March 30, 2008 at the Booth Theater (NYC), see " . ?cle=misc29" for more information.

[2] See _Like A Viking King_.

[3] See my next story -)


End file.
